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Dean hadn't told Sam where he was going.
That's how a lot of arguments used to start — until they had both decided that they were just too damn old for it, so nowadays, they just leave it. (Plus, Sam installed Life360 on Dean's phone a while ago, so there's no real reason to even bring it up in the first place.)
It felt stupid to get his tarot read, made him feel like some naive, stumbling twenty-something looking for the meaning of life, or whatever, but after everything with Cas —
Safe to say, Dean was feeling directionless, unmoored in the way he always got whenever Cas died, though this time, he knew it was for good. And, because it was for good, Dean was committed to being good — to making his best friend's final sacrifice actually count for something. After drowning in a few too many bottles, after trying and failing to kill himself, after killing fucking God, he needed to know what to do next, he had to try to carve out the post-Cas existence that he knew was his future. With Chuck no longer writing his story, Dean wanted to know where he could go, maybe where he should go, if he should even keep going at all — hence the card reader.
He thought about making the drive to South Dakota and asking Patience to do it, but he couldn't stomach asking somebody he knew for something he thought was ultimately so childish, like checking the paper for his horoscope. Instead, he checked the paper for ads for psychics and chose the first one he came across because that somehow felt marginally less shameful. He didn't call ahead to ask for the hours or make an appointment — he hoped if she was worth her salt, she'd know he was coming.
A cold, much-needed road beer accompanied Dean to a back-alley office a couple towns over that belonged to one Ms. Carolina Sink. Dean parked, downed his last sip, took a deep breath per Sammy's self-help advice. Felt a phantom pain in his scarred shoulder — something that had been more pronounced since his ultimate loss. Something about the handprint hurting again felt nostalgic, reminded him of all the times it'd hurt before when he lost Cas in the past. How when he came back, the pain always stopped.
This time, though, he knew it wouldn't ever stop.
Dean placed his own hand over Cas's phantom one. "Thanks, man. Helps knowin' you're here," he said to his old friend, to his own personal God, to nothin' but the thin fuckin' air.
Another deep breath. He got out of the car. Alone.
A bell chimed above his head as he walked into the house, announcing his arrival. Several cats came bounding curiously down the winding staircase to his left, followed by the purple-slippered feet of their owner.
"Come right in, Dean, glad you made it," came the voice attached to the feet. He wasn't surprised that she knew his name already, giving him a little confidence that she knew what she was doing. Dean's eyes scanned upwards to meet her voice, passing over the younger woman's several dark, flowing layers, draped whimsically about her soft form. Her black layers were contrasted by the electric color of her hair, dyed green. Dean caught her outstretched hand just in time to still be polite, shook it. Noticed that the hand and arm attached to it were heavily tattooed, its almond shaped nails painted black. When he went to pull away, she cupped his hand with her other one and squeezed him tight. "I'm very sorry for your loss. Follow me, have a seat," she offered, showing Dean into the sitting room to their right.
Dean nodded with a tight-lipped smile. He didn't tell many people about losing Cas — nobody beside the usual suspects really needed to know. Dean was glad that she knew without him having to say it.
He really didn't like having to say it.
The well-loved cushion of a mustard yellow sofa welcomed Dean's tired old body, making him feel slightly comforted despite the newness of the atmosphere, his context for being here. Touched the phantom hand squeezing his shoulder.
"Need another drink?" she asked, not a hint of judgment in her voice — just stating things simply, politely. Dean still felt her words shake through him like an accusation, though — maybe one of Mary's, or John's, maybe one of his own. But not Cas's.
"Could do with a top-up."
"I'm sure I still have a beer or two in the back of the fridge leftover from the Superbowl — my turn to host this year — lemme go grab one, letcha take the other for the road. I know I don't have to worry about you getting home, I can already see you fighting your brother over the comics in the paper tonight, but still, don't make me regret it."
With that, she fluttered down the hall, a small army of furry feline familiars following right after. She returned with a Dos Equis — Dean popped the cap with the bottle opener on his keys, took a grateful sip that washed away a small handful of his nerves.
Carolina sat across from Dean in an orange-striped armchair, her many little friends gathering and settling around her. A tan cat with only one blue eye stayed outside the pack — curled up in Dean's lap.
"That's Baby Chandler," Carolina offered in introduction. To the cat, "Baby Chandler, this is Dean." Then, back to Dean, "Lost his left peeper on the streets, but we got him patched up. Been here for about six years now."
Dean smiled at the introduction, spread an unsure hand over the cat's back and caressed him. It was comforting, grounding, to have something alive provide unconditional comfort.
Between them was a wooden table whose edges were etched with runes — most Dean recognized, a few he didn't. "I'm gonna read your houses, hopefully give ya somethin' to chew on along this journey you're on. You got a good memory or d'ya wanna audio recording of our session? I can do a cassette, CD, or digital download."
Dean figured, fuck it. His memory wasn't what it used to be after everything that'd been done to him, and regardless of whether or not it'd be anything worth hearing twice, at least it'd give him something to fill the silence while dragging his pathetic ass back to the bunker to lick whatever wounds would be reopened by this pseudo-therapy session.
"Hell, throw in the cassette. Put it on my bill."
"For sure, sugar." She turned, then from a drawer of the curio behind her, she pulled out a tape recorder and a fresh cassette, got it all ready, then set the device to record at the side of them, leaving the middle of the table open for her to deal her cards, the deck of which she produced from a different drawer.
The reader held her tarot deck out to Dean. "Could you give these a shuffle for me?"
Something to do with his hands. That was good, welcome. He took the deck from her, flicked the cards around between his hands until he thought he'd mixed them up enough, handed them back. Carolina held them for a moment with her eyes closed, then began to deal them face up one at a time, in the shape of a circle that covered the majority of the table's surface area.
As the cards were laid out before her, Carolina hummed curiously. Dean didn't like the pause, but sat with it all the same, letting her come to whatever conclusions about him that her fancy little playing cards led her to.
"Almost half your houses have swords in them," she noted — again, not a hint of judgment where Dean sought it, simply an observation. Reminded him of how Cas —
Deep breath.
Reminded him of how Cas used to just say shit — whatever he was thinking in the beginning, less so as time went on. Dean's fault. Fuckin' missed it. His scar pulsed — a dull, nostalgic pain.
"Yeah? What's that tell ya?" he drawled, play-amused, putting on the unbothered mask of a civilian.
"That you have self-destructive tendencies and a lot of difficult truths to confront," she noted.
Oh.
Well, shit — that could be said about anybody.
"Let's dig right in, shall we? First house, House of the Self. The ten of swords tells me that this journey you're on, whatever destination you have, you're beginning at rock fuckin' bottom. Like, just the absolute butt-worst. That's rough, buddy. This house also umbrellas perception, so I'm pretty sure the people around you know you're struggling — kinda like how it's hard to not stop and watch when you pass by a car wreck."
Great. "Yeah, kinda had the shit beaten outta me by God recently."
"Yeah, I can kinda tell from the, y'know," she gestured at him vaguely, "everything about you. Sorry. You're just feeling, like, super heavy, honey. But fear not — you can take comfort in knowing that it can only go up from here."
Dean snickered. She reminded him of Charlie, too, his Charlie — just another loss. "S'okay. Keep on."
"Somethin' 'boutcha tells me you're not too worried 'bout your money, but I'll read your second house anyway… Four of swords in reverse — you'll be moving some money or possessions around in the near future, perhaps coming into an inheritance or…passing one along. Hopefully not the latter, right?"
Dean hummed. That one had to be wrong — he didn't have shit left to get or give in this life — but he humored her anyway. "Don't plan on leaving much behind, so, shit, maybe it's my lucky day and I got a rich uncle I don't know about. Go on."
"Maybe, indeed," she agreed. "Third house — communication. You have the seven of cups here, it's a message of warning against clinging too closely to fantasy and not close enough to reality. Keep your values and goals in the forefront of your mind when communicating with the people in your life."
"Good enough advice," Dean guessed — if he had people in his life left to communicate with.
"You're humoring me," Carolina noted.
Dean gave another false smile. "Nah, go on — I'm just, y'know, takin' it all in, or whatever. Do your thang," he joked uncomfortably.
Carolina allowed him an amused smile. "Alright, then the thang I shall do. Okay, so, let's look at your fourth house — House of the Home, your roots. You got the page of swords — it's giving me the vibe that your roots are more ephemeral, knowledge-based, rather than physical — you were born from a search for truth and wisdom. You're carrying several torches on your path to enlightenment — don't let them burn out. Let them light your way on your search for your true home, okay?"
Chills. Dean's home was gone, died in that dungeon. Dean shook the jitters off. Shit like this wouldn't faze him. "Alright. I'll, uh, keep that in mind."
"Will you?"
Dean snickered."You my mom?"
"Watch it, old man, I'm way younger than you!" she batted back playfully, reminding him of Claire. "Let's look at the fun house — creativity and pleasure. Oh, some more swords — eight to be exact. They're telling me you're stuck, unable to move on, less creatively and more in your… passionate pursuits, if ya know what I mean."
Dean wouldn't blush. He wouldn't. It was stupid.
"I'd recommend examining your fears and self-limiting beliefs, break yourself free of the mental confines holding you back from reaching out for the love you seek."
Dean snickered again, this time a little more bitterly. "Last thing I need to be seekin' is love, lady."
"You'll think about it eventually, though. There's some affair you're a part of, or want to be part of — something hidden, but it'll come to light. When you finally allow yourself to indulge in whatever complicated coupling you've found yourself at the cusp of, remember something for me. Remember that you are your own greatest opposition. The only thing stopping you from having what you want is you and your self-limiting thoughts."
Yeah, me and the rest of the fuckin' universe.
Dean nodded, letting the advice roll of his back, water off a duck — love was out of the question. Love is what Cas had proclaimed, what his eyes had begged for. Anything close to whatever Cas wanted from him, his dying declaration of desire — it would have to stay far from him. He'd never allow himself to take and have what he was never able to give to Cas. "Thanks, but, uh, don't think I'll be fuckin' 'round much in that house." Not anymore, not ever again.
Carolina nodded solemnly. "No worries. You wanna keep goin'? Almost halfway through…"
"Shit, might as well."
"Kay," she agreed hesitantly. "Well, welcome to your sixth house — service and health — you're all over that, I can tell. The deck gave you Justice here. She's telling you to remain level-headed in response to everyday crises in your day to day work. And this journey you're starting… you'll need to remember to seek just resolutions, not only what you think you want."
Dean bristled at the perceived slight. "Yeah, right, I'm selfish, got it."
"That's not what I said. I said to see both sides."
Dean shrugged off what still felt like an accusation. "Whatever, no skin off my ass. Keep on," he encouraged. Momentarily wondered what a jackass he was gonna sound like if he ever played this goddamn tape back.
"You have the five of cups in your seventh house — partnerships. This is where your loss is, I can see it. You're mourning the potential of what could have been. Full of regret, disappointment…"
Dean shrugged, because yeah. Yeah, he regretted the way things went, how they ended, how he had just stood there while Cas bared his soul — he was thinking about that moment again when he heard Carolina's voice snap him out of it.
"I know it's hard, but try to focus on what remains, not what's been lost."
Dean scoffed again. "Kid, all I got left's a damn scar on my shoulder. Bastard didn't even leave his fuckin' nasty ass old coat for me this time," Dean bitched to his momentary therapist, as if she even cared to know.
"I can feel how deep your sorrow is here. I'm sorry he's gone," she offered, another hand extended to clasp his.
Without thinking, Dean squeezed the hand that held his — a tether. He blinked his stinging eyes, bit the inside of his cheek, cleared his throat to stifle the pathetic cry that was clawing its way up his throat. "Yeah," was all he could say. "Just, uh," he trailed off, gesturing for her to continue. He didn't want to dwell on it, on the reminder of his loss.
Carolina nodded with another pained look, as if she could feel the enormity of Dean's grief herself. "Your death house has the ten of wands — Hon, you been shouldering this all on your own?"
Dean grimaced, shrugged. Nodded.
"Well, no wonder your shoulder's been aching," she chastised, "the wands say ya gotta spread that shit around, sailor — seek support. You've lost a lot, but you've still got some people left, right?"
Counted on his single hand the number of people left. Nodded regardless of how low it was.
"Tell someone. Get help. You'll need it with the journey you're on."
"Kinda why I came to you."
"Honey, I just play around with fancy cards — ain't your mom, your therapist, nor am I your brother — who you should talk to more, by the way."
Dean rolled his eyes, shrugged again, chugged his beer. Motioned for her to continue as he swallowed.
"Well, we're two-thirds of the way through your houses, you're holdin' up pretty good so far, considering. Ready for number nine?"
Dean nodded again, not feeling much like talking — the bitter taste of all his regret remained a cloying spread coating the back of his throat no matter how much of his beer he swallowed.
"Alright, name of the game's travel and higher ideals — where you're headed. You got the reversed hangman — damn stubborn ass," she commented, making Dean chuckle. Reminded him of Bobby — more loss. "I feel someone telling me to urge you to 'pull your head outta your ass', which as a professional, I'll interpret to mean that there's someone watching over you who would like to see you stop clinging to old patterns that don't serve you — start clean, look for a fresh perspective on your problem before traveling from one point to another."
Oh, yeah, that message was all Bobby — at least the part before all the self-help woo-woo. Nice to know he was still watching over him. Dean smiled something small.
"In your tenth house, status and honor, you have more swords — go figure — seven this time. Something about the way you're moving forward carries a heavy air of dishonesty. There's something you're looking to avoid by lying, very likely to others, even more likely to yourself — something that you think will affect your status in your community or the honorability of the life you plan to leave behind. If you want to go out with the bang you desire and leave behind the legacy of your dreams, you'll have to do so in a more honorable way than lying to everyone and drinking yourself to an early grave," she commented, nodding to the beer he'd since finished. "That future is ugly."
Dean set the empty bottle down, itched to go grab the second one she'd mentioned saving for the road. Wished for something a little stronger were he to survive what was turning out to be quite a thorough reading.
"Your penultimate house is all about your place in your community, among your friends. The page of pentacles… hmm. Didn't think ya had it in ya after seeing the reversed hangman."
"What is it?"
"Says you're trying to reinvent yourself, huh? Maybe redefine your role in your community? Or your sense of duty — maybe you're looking to redefine that?"
Dean considered it. "Dunno. Maybe I ought to."
"I wish you luck," she said with a hand outstretched, moving to get up.
"Ain't there one card left?"
"You probably don't care, you've heard enough about your grief."
"Nah, c'mon, what's it say?"
"Well, the twelfth house is all about your hidden self, your secrets… and endings. I know you're not one to want to open up much, but—"
"Just… c'mon, lemme finish it out. Humor me for a change," he offered, needing to know all of it so that he could mull it over in silence for the next week while he worked out what the fuck this all meant.
Carolina nodded side to side, considering the card. "You have the lovers in your twelfth house… you were widowed by your soulmate?"
Dean got up off the couch, walked out of the room. 'Cause that was just — yeah. Grabbed the beer the reader was saving for his return trip from the back of her fridge, knocked it back, wishing it was something stronger. His shoulder hurt.
Rejoined her in the reading room. Took a deep breath. "Is that—you'd say this shit's pretty accurate?"
"As accurate as you let it be," she responded, a non-response.
"I guess it's just—me 'n him… things weren't— we never really—"
"I saw, all those swords in your fifth house… it never got that far with him, did it?"
Another pained grimace. Shameful, pitiful, ugly.
"Is that part of the grief, do you think?" she prodded, curiosity getting the better of her.
Dean paced a little, drank a little — the rest of it, actually.
"You have work to do, Dean, choices to make. Dropping the self-limiting beliefs, remember? Confronting the hard truths…"
"What's the fuckin' point? He's dead."
"You and I both know that's not the point, nor is it the end. Not for you two at least, especially not with you involved. Show me the Dean whose fourth house is all about searching for the truth. What about the truth inside you?"
"I think I'm good, actually, I gotta—I should probably get outta here."
"Dean—"
"Just—tell me what's the damage, I'm good for it, then I'll get outta your hair."
"I'm sorry if I pushed—"
"Don't," he finished for her. "Ad said sixty for the reading, right?" he figured, pulling out three twenties.
"The tape is an extra five," she responded, back to business.
Dean didn't have change, threw an extra twenty on the table. Grabbed his commemorative tape from the deck. "Keep the change. See ya," he said in riddance of her, of the stabbing pain of his loss, of the undeniable truth that he didn't want to confront.
The bell chimed to announce his going as it had his coming, then with a handful of sure strides, a slide of his ass against her leather seat, he was back behind Baby's wheel, eager to crawl back to the hole in the ground that housed every memory he had of his first and final decade with the angel that had — as he'd admit just this once and to himself alone — made a widow out of him.
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Dean listened to the tape on the way back and realized he sounded like as much of an ass as he thought he'd sound. Around his own bullshit, Carolina's words stuck with him, her ultimate ones the most, though: 'widowed by your soulmate?' She had preceded her reading with the promise to deliver him 'something to chew on', and boy, did she fuckin' ever — he had somehow wound up with an entire cornucopia of his inadequacies and insecurities, laid bare by some stupid fucking playing cards.
Dean kept driving, drove well past the turn to the bunker. He didn't text Sam where he was going because he didn't know. He just drove, following a pull in his chest until Baby's gas light came on, another star on the dark horizon that had descended around him as time passed. He pulled into a Casey's off some bumfuck exit, grabbed a six pack from inside when he went to prepay for gas. Renewed with fuel for himself and his Baby, he got back on the road. The magnet in his chest pulled him closer to his destination, still unknown to him.
His shoulder hurt. In the quiet of the Impala, he once again thanked his invisible companion for being alongside him. Dean drove until he saw it, and only then did he find out where he'd been going.
The old barn was still there — hadn't been blown away or burned down, even after a decade and some change. Dean had figured it would've — everything else significant to him usually withered away after a while. But no — there she stood, the place he first laid eyes on his angel.
Dean's shoulder hurt, a rough squeeze. Could almost feel sure fingers digging in —
Fuck. Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, walked toward his own personal house of worship, hoped he'd be deemed worthy to kneel under its roof. He traced the path his angel had — a step inside proved he wouldn't burst into flames, followed by another. He looked around himself, saw the walls were still tagged with his and Bobby's handwriting beneath new graffiti that had been added over the intervening years.
In the empty shell of the barn, in his temporary chapel, Dean got down on his old knees and, with a shaky hand settling over the scar on his own aching shoulder, he prayed;
"Hey, Cas — hope ya got your ears on… Hope you're somewhere your ears still work…"
He knew it was stupid, but this was the only thing he could think his mission to be — reconnecting with his angel, whatever form that would take, even if only spiritually, even if it was all only make-believe.
When it came to Cas, Dean would always make-believe.
"Came about as close as I'll ever get to seein' a shrink earlier today — some green-haired kid in Manhattan. She mentioned you. A lot, actually… Got me thinkin'… I dunno, maybe… maybe this, or that, that night — maybe that's not the end for us—uh, me 'n you, I mean," he said, afraid of the implications. Then, feeling guilty, he clarified, "As, y'know… we're… like, partners, I guess. On the same team," he rambled, dancing awkwardly around Carolina's word soulmate. "Just know… I, uh, I'm tryin' again. I know I toldja I'd stop after the last time, but, man, it's you. I'm gonna see you again or die tryin'. "
He didn't know yet how right he'd be — on both counts.
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There was nothing and no one, just a vast vacant blackness where nothing conscious dwelled.
Then, all at once, it was blindingly white — sucked away from the darkness and deposited where he was surrounded by everything and everywhere that had ever been, before landing squarely at the familiar feet of the boy he'd raised.
"Jack?"
"Cas! It worked!"
Suddenly, before he could understand what was happening, Cas was enveloped in the embrace of the boy he had tried to raise, that he never thought he'd see again.
It couldn't be real.
Cas squeezed tightly around what he was quickly realizing wasn't, in fact, a figment of his imagination. Father and son stood swaying together. Caught up in the euphoria, Cas barely had the mind to wonder how any of this was happening, but once that thought crept into his head, he couldn't ignore it. "What did you do? Why am I here? I—I died. I know I died."
Jack pulled away. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what? The last thing I saw was Dean—"
Pause.
Deep breath.
"I saw Dean, then there was black until there was just nothing, not even an absence I could remember, just nothing, then I was here."
"Well, it was awesome! I was just seeing if I even could do it — I just reached into the Empty to see if I could find you and plucked you right out! I didn't think for a second it would actually work!"
Confusion mounted as Cas looked around him. Something about his surroundings was simultaneously familiar and foreign all at once. "Where are we? How long was I gone? Did I… Did Dean make it? Was I at least successful in saving him when I died?" There was a very human-like adrenaline coursing through him, keeping him upright. Without it, Cas believed that whatever form he was currently taking would suddenly collapse.
Speaking of his form, he looked down to find himself still in the familiar old vessel, borrowed what felt like several lifetimes ago despite it being the form he had spent the least amount of time in compared to the rest of his long, long life. This form felt safe, if not a little stifling.
"How did you even find me?" he asked, adding to the pile of questions he'd already barraged the boy-god with. "Sorry about all the questions, it's just—"
"Cas, it's okay. It's a lot, I know. Right now, we're in Heaven — what's left of it anyway. That's… kind of… well it's part of why I brought you back. I told Sam and Dean before I left that I would remain distant, not meddling in things like Chuck had, but…" he trailed off.
Cas was still confused, but he still reached out to his son, a comforting hand cupping his shoulder. "But what, Jack?"
"Swear you won't say anything?"
Cas blew a laugh out his nose despite the situation; who in the world did he have to tell? "I swear," he promised anyway.
Jack still looked away, still retreated, still paced away from Cas when he admitted, finally, "I'm scared."
"Scared?"
Jack nodded, his demeanor decidedly different.
"Of what?"
"Of it all. I tried relying on what I learned from you guys, but… rebuilding Heaven is proving to be much more challenging than I thought. The angels… there are so few of them left… I thought, maybe I could reach into the Empty and… y'know… steal a few back, have their power help Heaven heal. When I got the idea, I knew I'd have to try it on you first. I knew if I could at least get you back, you'd know how to help me figure out how to repopulate Heaven without the Empty noticing."
"Of course, Jack, anything — I'll do anything to help. Come here," Cas insisted, scooping his boy into his arms. "There's no need to be scared. You saved me, Jack. More times than just this most recent one. If there's anyone who can rebuild our home, it's you."
Jack tucked his face into his dad's neck, nuzzled for comfort. Cas was taken aback at how childlike the deity in his arms allowed himself to be around him, but caressed him comfortingly all the same. "I can't do it alone," the boy-god admitted.
"You're more than capable. You don't need me, you don't need to risk the barrier between Heaven and the Empty, you should send me back—"
"Maybe I'm capable, but I don't want to do it alone. You're already here, whatever damage that could've been done already has been done. Won't you stay and help me? Please, Cas?"
Stricken by his boy's plea, Cas gave in. "I'll stay. I'll do whatever you need me to do to in order to get this ship back up and running at full power," he promised solemnly.
Jack squeezed around him tighter. "Thank you," he offered in a voice so small you'd never think it befitting of a god.
Cas was glad to have settled his son's anxieties, but his own were still simmering within him, threatening to eat away at his insides. "Jack, is—is Dean… is he… here? Or down—"
"He's not here, not yet — you saved him, Cas."
"You saw him? After I—"
"Yeah, after you…" he trailed off, "We defeated Chuck together, then I took on the responsibility of Heaven's rehabilitation, which is what led me here."
Cas wanted to ask a question that he'd never been able to ask before, to someone who would give it to him honestly and earnestly. "I know you said you've been trying to remain distant, but… What was he like? After…"
Jack looked down. "I don't know if he'd want me talking about him like that."
"I need to know. Was there something he said? Did? Please, Jack."
"He was just… different after. Like after I was born, but… quieter. He wouldn't talk for a while, and when he finally did, he wouldn't say what happened in the dungeon. I begged him to know, but he pushed me away. Since I left, I've been trying to remain… omniscient and not so laser-focused as Chuck, so I've been giving both of them space, I haven't checked in with them in a while…"
So, Dean hadn't told anyone about his dying declaration. Cas was of two minds about that fact —
In one, he was relieved that his vulnerability hadn't been broadcast to his whole family, that his secret could die with Dean.
In the other, he was devastated to know that Dean was so ashamed of him that he hadn't said a single word to anyone about what happened.
— The latter fact clawed at his soft innards, a poisonous polish on its talons, leaving acid burns in their wake.
"Cas? Are you okay?" his son asked, bringing him back to the present.
"I'm… yes. I'm just fine. Let's leave it — I'm here to do a job. What needs doing?"
"I… Well, I need you to essentially guard the flock we still have while I gather the ones we've lost until we have enough power to open the gates back up. The veil is about to burst from the surplus of souls waiting for entry."
"You're entrusting Heaven's well-being to me?"
"Cas, I trust you more than anyone I've ever met in my life."
"You haven't been alive very long."
"That doesn't mean you're not worthy. But if you're not willing…"
"No, no, I am. I can… hold down the fort, as Dean would say…" The comparison hurt.
"Thank you, Cas," Jack said as he engulfed Cas in another bear hug. "Keep your ears on, I'll be with you if I need you or the mission changes," he promised, pulling away.
Cas nodded, mentally turned the dial in his brain to 'on', listened as weak signals of angel radio trickled in between his ears.
Jack could feel the connection as it was established. Satisfied, the boy-god took his leave — back into the mouth of the cavernous pit that housed the scores of angels they'd need to replenish the afterlife.
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Shepherding was a task that lent itself to lingering.
His son was on the move; Cas could feel every new wavelength of angel radio as it beamed through his being. Another connection he felt, another undeniable tether-tug, was that of the red string that connected himself and Dean. He wondered if his righteous man could feel it too.
As Cas loitered about the remains of his home, he set himself a task: from the rubble, he would build a selfish little section for himself and his charge for when Dean would ultimately meet him up there. He began doing so motivated by what was very likely a misguided hope that Dean would even want anything to do with him once he made his way up there. If he didn't, Cas rested assured that at the very least, his charge would have a safe place to land when his time came, even if Dean didn't want to share that with him.
Brick by scavenged brick, Cas constructed a corner of the afterlife with the object of his undying desire in mind.
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Cas was tempted to visit Earth, but reconstructing Heaven was a full-time engagement, added onto by Cas's personal project of building a home for Dean.
Time passed differently in the afterlife, though it wasn't very long before a prayer from Cas's favorite sinner came in;
'Hey, Cas — hope ya got your ears on… Hope you're somewhere your ears still work…'
Cas could hardly believe it — his righteous man, still alive, still reaching out to him. He felt that telltale tug at the tether tied to his torso, a lasso his wild cowboy had thrown around him over a decade ago, one that hadn't ever loosened. He wished he could return the message. Squeezed his right hand, the first point of contact he'd ever made with Dean. It burned — dull and drenched in nostalgia.
Cas felt dirty listening to his charge's sorrow, his mentions of an us that could never exist, a reminder that stabbed into his gut, a me and you that twisted the blade. He felt woozy from Dean's punctuating promise, 'I'm gonna see you again or die tryin'. '
Out of love, he hoped he'd never see Dean again, that his righteous man would somehow outlive him.
Out of selfishness, he hoped he'd soon see Dean come around the corner of the cottage he'd been constructing for him.
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Dean spent two weeks camping out at the barn, waiting for Cas's voice to respond to his prayers. He didn't leave until Sam started calling, even then, he still held out a few more days, determined to hold onto the connection he felt with Cas when he was in this holy place of their sacred first meeting. Starting his journey back to Cas here felt right, but he didn't know where to go next. There was a lot he didn't know about the journey he was embarking on, but there was one thing he did know for sure — he was gonna do this reunion right.
That meant Dean had some work to do, some decisions to make, per Carolina and her call-out cards.
Decision, the first: Dean would stop lying.
It started small, like a soccer mom forfeiting Hershey's for Lent — lots of cheat days, especially when it came to his usual craving: little white lies, told mostly to himself.
That he was fine.
That he didn't remember exactly what Cas had last said to him.
That he hadn't thought of it himself from time to time over the years.
That he hadn't always known.
After Purgatory, especially the second time — Dean knew.
It was in the way Cas looked at him, talked to him, touched him, yelled at him — all however sparingly. It was in everything — it used to make Dean sick like he was allergic to it, so he'd avoid it — punish it, even. He never thought Cas would ever say out loud the part they always kept quiet. He thought they had silently agreed to keep it quiet.
All of those little lies, told regularly, stacked up — their volume building a tangible barrier around Dean, severing him from his duty, his mission. If he were going to move forward, if he were going to do this right, he was going to have to do the hard work of unpacking Cas's confession and his own feelings in response.
It took time to unearth himself from the hole he'd spent forty-some years digging. Behind his eyes flashed every image of Cas that had been burned into his now-shoddy memory. Maybe he'd lose his keys every other day, but he'd never forget the way Cas looked at him, the way his reassuring hand felt on his shoulder, squeezing — he could almost feel it now.
Succeeding his first pilgrimage to his and Cas's barn, Dean returned several times in pursuit of fixing it up. Why? Fuck knows, it was something to do. It felt right. Every time he was there, he felt that old comforting ache in his shoulder and felt like he was closer to that ephemeral home Carolina mentioned. His reader had said he was on this journey to find his true home, and he figured fixing this old piece of shit up came close to that. Maybe he'd have it fixed all the way by the time he figured out how to get Cas back — another certainty he was convinced of the more he re-listened to his reading.
As he made his repairs to the barn, he thought about other things Carolina had said, about needing to ask for help on the journey, to reach out and allow someone to help him carry the weight of the widow's burden that had fallen squarely on his shoulders. It felt kinda wrong, but he took Sam out to the barn, a six-pack each waiting in the cooler they'd brought along.
"What is this place?"
No more lying. "Where I first met Cas."
A silent beat. "No shit?"
"Yeah, no shit."
The two got out, started unloading the trunk of Sam's Subaru. "This where ya been going lately?"
"Been fixin' 'er up," Dean explained, packing his newly purchased materials over to the structure, some flats to cover holes, longer boards to reinforce the supports, the like.
"What for?"
Dean shrugged. "Guess I wanna make it nice…" he trailed off.
Another silent beat. "For when you get 'im back?"
Dean scoffed. "What gave me away?”
"Not a lot, but Dean, I know you. I don't know what happened, all the details, but I've seen you after he dies enough times to know when you're in the 'getting-him-back' stage. So, what's the plan this time?"
"Still kinda workin' on that. But in the meantime, I'm fixin' us up a bitchin' bachelor pad," he deflected.
"You're movin' him into this shithole?" Sam teased.
"Needs a few things, couple 'a sinks, a fridge, a commode, but we got time."
"And you actually want me to… help you? Like, you're actually asking for help?" his brother further negged.
"Hey, so what? Tryin' somethin' new, sue me. You gonna grab a hammer or what, bitch?"
"Right behind ya. Jerk."
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As the brothers worked on the barn, they each tended to get into the zone and ignore each other, but Dean was trying to be good for Cas, or for the memory of him, at least, by heeding his reader's advice — making a conscious effort to reach out, to include his brother in his thought processes. The act was profoundly uncomfortable for him, but, per Carolina's instructions, he needed to practice withstanding the discomfort of vulnerability if he were to ever have a shot at reuniting with Cas, of making it all count for something.
"Y'know, I think about him all the fuckin' time, man," Dean finally admitted, aloud and to himself, one day during a beer break after having been silent the entirety of the afternoon. Both boys' asses were parked on the grass, cooler in the center, backs to the outer wall of the sacred structure.
"I get it, yeah, I miss him too," Sam replied, trying to relate, knowing he probably couldn't.
An uncomfortable beat. "Yeah, uh, not… not tryna shit on you, but, uh, I don't think we miss him the same way…"
"Whaddya mean? What, I see him more as a friend and you see him more as…what?"
Dean didn't know how to word what he wanted to say, what he should say. The truth of what he felt for Cas evaded expression. "Just more, I guess" he admitted, grasping for a way to describe what had been festering inside of Dean for over a decade. "More than friends."
"Like what, then? Brothers? War buddies? 'Cause I get that, too."
"Kinda?" he attempted. Until Cas changed everything with his goodbye, Dean never had a good word for his lovesick devotion to his angel that wasn't brothers — that was the only love he'd ever grown up consistently having, so brothers was easier. But Cas didn't have brother feelings for Dean. Family for sure, just… not brothers. "Y'know, kinda like… partners in crime I guess? Whatever Thelma 'n Louise had goin' on," he attempted, treading closer to the truth he'd spent over a decade avoiding.
"Friend 'a mine in college thought those two were gay, y'know?" Sam mused around another swig. "The kiss at the end."
Dean blew a laugh out his nose, took a sip of his own drink. "Maybe that's why I've been feelin' so goddamn sorry for myself — never got my kiss at the end…"
Sam choked on his beer, some dribbled out his nose. "You fuckin' with me?"
Dean swished his sip in his mouth, swallowed thickly; tasted the cloying regret clinging to his palate. "Fuck, wish I was, Sammy. Wish I fuckin' was, but nah — it's, uh, guess I gotta admit, missin' out on that's pretty high up on the famous list of regrets."
"No shit?"
"No shit."
"Shit, man," Sam sighed. "The whole time? Like the whole time we knew Cas, he was always more to you? Like that?"
As Dean thought about it, he rambled his mental journey without thinking, let himself get away with it on account of the beer, even though to a liver like his, half a six-pack deep was light work. "Yeah… Yeah, he was always more, yeah. I don't know what the word is for all that, but yeah, on some level, it was always more. I was just… I didn't know what to do, how to do it, so I just… didn't. But I knew, uh, knew there was… something, pretty much the whole fuckin' time," he confessed, "just too goddamn chickenshit to say anything, even when he—"
Dean paused, took a breath.
After having to be dragged out of the dungeon by his little brother, Dean hadn't returned— not physically, anyway, but mentally? That shit was on repeat in his brain. But that's where it lived, and that's where Cas's final memory on Earth would die were Dean to carry the shame of the confession to his grave.
"What happened at the end? You never told me… I get it, if that's just for you 'n him, but—"
"Said he loved me," Dean admitted around the mouth of a fresh bottle.
"He—what?"
"To save me. Bastard cut some deal with the Empty, wound up savin' his pay-up for when Billie was on our asses. He, uh, had to summon it…" Another swig. "Had to… Said the deal was, it'd come to collect when he… when he finally let himself be happy…"
Dean bit the inside of his cheek again, recalling vividly the swell of emotions as he listened to his friend's dying declaration. "Long 'n short of it, I guess tellin' me he… loved me… was what made him, y'know…happy.
"Next thing I know, he's shoving me to the ground… made me watch while all that black just fuckin'… just fuckin' swallowed him up, Billie too, then he was gone, it was just me…"
Sam sipped his beer uncomfortably. "Did you, uh, didja at least get to say it back?"
Acknowledging that he felt it back was too hard and Dean was too much of a coward. "Nope. In that moment… I couldn't say anything. Most important goddamn moment of my life, 'n I couldn't squeeze but but a few fuckin' words out, not even the right fuckin' ones. It was my last chance and I fucked it."
Sam finished his drink, grabbed another, chugged half of it. "Always thought it was brothers with you two. Like us, ya know? Like those conjoined twins who share a ribcage or some shit."
That was another of the difficult truths to confront that his reader had foreseen: "I guess I don't really have, uh, brother feelings for Cas," he admitted. "Got the conjoined part right, though. Feels like I lost a limb," bubbled up another confession, chased back down by beer, then brought back up again by Carolina's warning like ipecac. "Like more than a limb. Like half of me. I need to get 'im back, Sammy. I gotta get back to him one way or a fuckin' other."
Sam slammed the rest of his drink, set its husk down resolutely. "We're gettin' him back."
"Oh, so it's 'we' now?"
"You're the one who made it my problem with the chick-flick sessions, so yeah, it's 'we' now."
"Ain't weird to you? That I have, uh, y'know, a thing for Cas?"
"It's weird if I think about it for more than a minute, but longer than that 'n it boomerangs back around to makin' sense again, somehow. I think it's 'cause you two are, like, the only beings in existence who know how to handle each other — the only ones who could actually fuckin' stand doin' it, honestly," Sam teased.
"Fuck off, like you're a bed of roses yourself. Let's ask Eileen."
Sam giggled, sipped more from his bottle. "Guess those high school dorks back in the day were onto somethin' after all, huh? How's it feel to get clocked by a kid barely old enough to drive?" his brother snickered, lightening the mood.
Dean chuckled despite himself. "Shoulda heard 'em out back then," he mused. "That's the fuckin' Winchester curse, ain't it? The Curse of the fuckin' Coulda-Woulda-Shoulda. Wish it was a monster I could just gank. So much 'a that bullshit layin' 'round, it feels like I'm gonna suffocate under it."
"We're gonna figure out a way to get you back to him. I don't care what it takes, what we gotta do. If I get to have Eileen back, you deserve to have Cas back. Til then, get on top 'a that commode sitch, sick 'a shittin' in the woods," he teased further.
"You better be droppin' the kids off at someone else's pool, 'cause I swear, if I bring Cas home and I'm trippin' over your turds, I'm gonna fuckin' get you."
The brothers laughed together like boys, something easy they hadn't had in about thirty goddamn years.
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Little by little, Heaven's lightbulbs flickered back on, illuminating the afterlife one by one with every angel and their grace plucked from the pre-personhood purgatory that was the pit of the Empty. Cas maintained his surrogate flock as it grew. He was happy to see visages of fallen comrades rejoin him in the paradise he was working tirelessly to reconstruct.
A bit at a time, alongside the grand Heaven rehabilitation, Cas worked to render his vision for Dean's final resting place, hoping his man would take to it when it came time for him to meet it.
That time threatened to come sooner than Cas could stomach.
It began with a descent of complete darkness.
The bright white that Jack had been sowing, that Cas had been cultivating — drowned in the clinging black. Cas knew exactly what had descended upon them, as did his son — in an instant, Cas was flung from Heaven, barely able to deploy his newly-reformed wings as he was catapulted to Earth, away from the grasp of the Empty.
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Dean didn't know how the fuck Sam did it, but one day, his brother came to him with his best "Get this" yet: "I think I found a way to open a portal into the Empty."
The explanation didn't come until they were already on the now-familiar route to the barn — Dean had dropped everything the moment Sam said he had a solution, all other details besides getting Cas back were auxiliary.
At Dean's house of worship, new spray paint in the shape of ancient symbols dressed the freshly-painted walls. Blood was spilled, old words were chanted, then suddenly, the wall opposite the brothers opened up like a black hole. Dean made Sam stay behind to keep it open, then, without further thought nor fear, Dean stepped into the Empty in search of his angel.
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"I know what you've been doing, boy," came the disembodied voice of the Entity that ruled over the Empty.
Jack turned all around himself to find his current form had been rendered minuscule by the expansive dark of the Empty, left alone without his father.
"You've been taking what's mine, stealing from me with every one you pluck from my collection."
"I'm righting the wrongs wrought by my predecessor. Were it not for God's will, there's no way there would be the number of angels trapped in your realm as there are. I'm taking back what should never have been given to you."
"Whether I earned their grace or won it in a poker game with your grandfather, it's mine, not yours to take."
"You know it's not right."
"I have no interest in what is considered 'right'. I'm interested in maintaining and growing my collection of holy husks."
"You can't stop me," Jack warned.
"You can't scare me. I don't feel fear, boy, I don't feel. I take and I sleep, and you have disrupted each of those tasks."
"I plan to continue resurrecting those felled by Chuck's writing."
"I'm sure you do plan to do that. Just as I plan to swallow up everything you love. You may be able to hide Castiel for now, but I know just who you can't hide from me — your precious humans."
"You stay off Earth!"
"Oh, as you have stayed out of my realm?"
"What I'm doing is justified!"
"As I will be when I pluck them one by one and hide them where you can never find them."
"You can't touch them!"
"Not only can I touch them, I have one already inside me — of his own volition, too."
"You're lying!"
"You haven't been watching your flock very closely, boy. As we speak, your precious Winchesters have summoned me in pursuit of their pet angel. I'm sure glad to have him back."
"LEAVE THEM ALONE!"
"You have a choice, boy. Continue stealing from me and all your boys die and spend eternity with me. Halt your crusade and when I kill them, you get to have them."
"You seem to have forgotten to present an option where they get to live!"
"They have violated me, as have you. The Winchesters will die — the only choice I'm offering you in the matter is where theirs souls go when I take their lives."
Jack, still new to being a deity, was at a complete loss. He had fucked up, he had fucked up so bad. "Take me instead."
"Not interested. Tick-tock, boy-god. The elder Winchester is inside me now, I can feel his life within me. He'll begin suffocating soon."
Jack needed more time than he had. He needed Cas, but he couldn't get him — not with the Empty all around him. Jack himself began feeling like he was suffocating as the possibilities flashed in his mind, as he grasped for what the hell to do.
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Dean was surrounded at all sides by a vast, suffocating nothing.
"CAS!" he shouted out into the abyss. Repeated his would-be lover's name until his voice was gravel, his throat dry and raw. He just needed to get in and get the hell out, hopefully with his angel in tow.
Dean walked for what felt like hours, days, weeks — time passed differently when there was nothing but nothing.
After what had to have been a month of walking and shouting, Dean came upon him: a trench-coated crumple just barely within eyesight. Dean ran to him, dropped to his knees at the pile's side, nudged to check for life. In an instant, something that looked like Cas but wasn't sprang to life. "Dean Winchester," sing-songed the creature. "I've been waiting for you."
Before Dean could understand what was happening, the nightmare's hands were around his neck. Dean was forced to stare into the eyes of his best friend's clone as he suffocated in its hold. Dean was powerless to something that looked like the angel he loved.
The last thing Dean saw before even the nothing fell away from him was the look of murder in the recreation of his long-lost would-be lover's face.
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When Cas next woke, it was in a field. He didn't remember getting there, nor did he know how long it'd been since he'd been deposited there. He didn't know how he was still alive—didn't know if Jack was, if Dean was.
Cas stood, took in his surroundings, only to find he'd found familiar footing — the field he was in was adjacent to the bunker.
Finally, he thought to himself, I'll finally get to see him again.
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"Tick-tock, boy-god. The elder Winchester is already in the veil, ripe for plucking. The younger is next."
"STOP!" Jack shouted, sending a neon orange shockwave out toward the Empty. It, unfortunately, did nothing to stop the Entity.
"I believe I asked you first."
"I'M NOT ASKING!" he shouted, louder. This time, he saw it cut through the black ooze, just barely.
Jack then knew just what to do, and just what to use to power himself.
━━━━━♡♤♡━━━━━
Cas took a deep breath, walked into the bunker.
"Dean? Sam?"
He didn't know how long it'd been, if they still even inhabited the old bunker. Regardless, he descended the stairs. "Sam? Are you there? Is Dean with you?"
Cas checked every room, except one, one he was saving for very last. They were all empty.
He knew where he had to check next.
Cas walked further down the hall, toward the last place he ever laid eyes on the man he loved.
Out of love, he hoped the dungeon would be empty too.
Out of selfishness, he hoped Dean would still be waiting there, on the floor, still wearing his bloody handprint atop the scar he'd left.
He took a deep breath, opened the door.
For once in Cas's long fucking life, love won out — he was alone in the bunker. With nothing left within him, he sank to his knees and prayed to his son.
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With the power bestowed upon him by each of his three fathers, Jack marched after the Entity, right into its clutches, letting it swallow him momentarily. From within him burst a blinding, all-encompassing light, the bomb he'd been saving, banishing all the blackness back from whence it came.
For a few moments after that, Jack was nothing but atoms.
Then, he heard his father's voice, calling out to him in prayer. It was grounding — he clung to it as he gathered himself. He honed in on the familiar sound, felt himself plummeting — came-to in Cas's surprised arms.
"Jack? What're you doing here? What happened?"
Jack looked around, surprised to find himself in the bunker's dungeon. "I had to stop the Empty. I think I did — probably did, hope I did, anyway —"
Cas squeezed him tight, cutting him off. "You're here, I think you did it."
Jack couldn't accept the love. "Not good enough, Dean, he—"
"What? What happened?"
"The Empty said it had him, that he was… I—I don't know where he ended up."
Out of love, Cas's heart sank.
Out of selfishness, he hoped, however futilely, that he'd get to see him again, however briefly.
Silently, father and son made their way back to their home to continue their repairs, the former praying to the latter that his man would be somewhere within reach.
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Dean came-to bathed in sunlight. He was in the grass — though where that grass was, exactly, was lost on him. Dean got his answer when he spotted the familiar visage of the Roadhouse in the distance, got closer, saw him waiting on the porch —
"Look what the cat dragged in," came the familiar voice. There, sitting expectantly in a rocking chair, was Bobby. Same old ballcap, same old cooler full of beers at his feet, sitting there like he'd been waiting for Dean the entire time. "When I heard how the kid's plan went tits-up, I was wonderin' when I'd see your sorry ass up here."
"'Up', huh? Well, 'least I made it to Heaven," he commented, taking a seat in the chair opposite Bobby. "Not that I ain't glad to see you, but, what're you doin' in my Heaven? Thought you were on lockdown."
"First of all, spoiled-ass, ain't your Heaven — You're in mine as much as I'm in yours, boy. Second of all, that kid of yours, before he fucked off to who-knows-where, made some changes here — including springin' me from the joint, droppin' the walls between afterlives."
"Huh," Dean considered, twisting off the top of a cooler beer, letting it wet his gullet, still raw from shouting for Cas — Dean was immediately reminded of the consequence of his being in Heaven: Cas was still trapped in the Empty. It was all he could think about while Bobby explained all the features of Heaven 2.0, how he'd failed to save his best friend once again.
"So… Jack did all that?"
"Well… Cas helped."
"Cas is here?"
Bobby gave a wise, knowing smile. "You're in Heaven, kid, got everything you could ever want or need or... dream… right here. So, I guess the only question is... what are you gonna do now, Dean?"
What Dean was gonna do was find his goddamn angel. He looked out around him, his eyes landing on Baby, sitting there waiting for him — Everything he'd ever need or want. "I think I'm gonna go for a drive."
━━━━━♡♤♡━━━━━
Dean drove.
He wasn't even pissed that his mission had failed, that he'd ultimately lost his life, because, with confirmation that Cas was within reach, he was on his way to begin his next one.
He drove and drove and drove. He didn't know how much time was passing, nor did he know where he was going, not until his shoulder started to hurt again, the dull pain growing stronger as he made his way down the endless, winding road.
One moment, he was aimless, then, all of a sudden, he just knew. He knew where he was going — that old red string in his middle getting tugged toward its other pole, toward his magnetic angel.
It wasn't much longer until Dean saw it: there, in a clearing off the beaten path, sat a cottage surrounded by lush greenery. He cut off Baby's rumbling engine in the gravel driveway, took another deep breath. He was steps away, though potentially miles, from getting his angel back.
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Jack's work managed to keep the lights on, giving Cas too much freedom to think.
As his indefinite isolation grew longer, his mind tortured him, reminding him Dean wouldn't want this — he'd want a place of his own, somewhere near John and Mary's place… not whatever pathetic posthumous fantasy Cas had been living out.
One day, after what felt like over a lifetime of lying in wait, a knock came at Cas's door. He knew before the answered it —
There, standing in the doorway, eyes and smile just as wild as he remembered —
"Heya, Cas," Dean greeted.
"Dean? What are you doing h—" Before Cas could get another word out, Dean was crossing the divide between them, grabbing Cas and pulling him into a crushing kiss, stealing all breath from his lungs. He barely of his own mind enough to catch up, to move his mouth against Dean's in the way he had dreamt of ever since the hunter showed him his first porno. Cas was pleasantly surprised to find that Dean made the same noises as the subjects of those films, especially when Cas licked into him, grabbed him firmly by the hips, bringing them closer together.
A tug of war, a tangle, a trip; they crashed into one of the walls Cas had constructed for them. It wasn't until Dean's mouth was attached to Cas's neck that the angel thought to question his charge's sudden appearance.
"You're not supposed to be here," Cas scolded as Dean possessively sucked and bit him.
"Damn, Cas, don't sound so happy to see me," he teased, breath hot against Cas's neck.
"It's not that I'm not — I am," he clarified as he rocked his hard body against Dean's. The hunter bucked back, firm, the solidness of the embrace making Cas melt into him like he always did. Tucked into Dean's neck, he mumbled, "I just — unh — I was hoping you'd live a little longer… You deserved to…"
Dean didn't stop squeezing him, didn't stop rocking his hard, wanting body against Cas's, the angel pinned to the wall behind them. Dean pressed another reassuring kiss to Cas's neck. "Nah, man, don't… I did my time, more'n enough of it, actually. It was… it was time. I couldn't—" Dean paused, cutting himself off, pulling away from the embrace slightly.
"Couldn't what?"
"Couldn't live without you. Without this," he explained, rutting against Cas again.
Cas's eyes rolled back at the delicious pressure. "Sorry I made you have to die in order to have this. If I had known…" he trailed off, snaking fingers into Dean's hair, tugging possessively.
Dean hissed, bit down on Cas's neck in return, then against it, he chided, "Bullshit 'if you'd'a known', don't tell me you couldn't tell the whole fuckin' time," his voice as sharp as the snap of his hips, rough as the way he ground down against his angel.
"Dean," Cas pleaded, voice breathy. He was rapidly losing control, unsure of what that would entail. "I didn't know, I swear."
"Fuckin' liar," Dean bit, punctuated by an actual chomp taken out of his angel's neck. "What even is this place?"
"It's… Well, I thought it could be… ours."
"'Ours'?"
"Only if you — fuck, Dean," he moaned as Dean continued humping him dry like the lovesick dog he was. "Only if you want that."
Dean stole another hungry, open-mouthed kiss, grabbed his angel's hand and guided it to rest over his desire, then began bucking up against that hand, only pulling away to tease, "Feel me, sweetheart, then try 'n convince me I don't want that."
Cas kept his hand there, giving his hunter something to rut into. He fixed the other to Dean's left shoulder, feeling electricity in his hand as he pressed his palm against the handprint he'd left behind all those years ago.
The hunter hiked one of Cas's legs up, began to simulate fucking him against the wall, their bodies pressed tightly together. Cas could feel his resolve waning, his control slipping, his desire mounting. He was really going to need Dean to actually fuck him like this one day — hopefully soon.
Cas abruptly came in his pants with a cry that Dean swallowed for himself, kept using his strong body long after, until he, too, was unloading into his pants. Cas petted Dean, praising him as they both came down, wrapped up in the other's embrace. Lazy kisses as they caught their breath.
"So," Cas began, trying his luck, "Do you think you're gonna stay?"
"Now that I've finally found my home? Not a chance I'm blowin' this."
"Glad to know it's all the house," Cas teased.
"Didn't say house. Said home — that's you, man. Can't believe I finally found you. Sorry it took so goddamn long."
"It was worth the wait," Cas promised.
Delusionally lovesick and questionably sticky, Dean and his angel continued their worship of each other in the bedroom Cas had furnished with only one bed — maybe he'd been a little more than just a little hopeful.
Before they'd bring a close to this endless Heaven day, Dean had one more matter of business to attend to: "Y'know, Cas, what you said before you… y'know… You know I mean it back, right?"
Cas, being a little shit, wouldn't let Dean get away with vaguery. "Hmm, it's been a while since then, you may need to remind me…" he teased.
Dean rolled his eyes fondly, leaned into Cas's ear, whispered, "You know I love you, jackass. Fuckin' love you so goddamn much that I'd die from it if I wasn't already dead."
Cas smiled. Finally. Finally he'd heard the words he'd died to hear, spoken like a solemn pledge. "I love you, Dean," he swore like an oath in return.
Tomorrow, or whenever they decided their next day would be, Dean and Cas would separate — Dean would go catch up with family, Cas would attend to his duties helping Jack run Heaven — they would be apart, but with the promise of returning to each other, of continuing to return to each other, on and on for eternity. Tonight, however, they would clean themselves up for a nightcap in the kitchen that Cas had stocked for Dean with endless spirits. Tonight, Dean would hum an old tune, one off the tape he'd made his angel all those years ago, filling the space between them as they toasted to what they'd found in each other; Cas, having listened to that tape too many times to count, would join in the humming. Tonight, late into the night, they would dance in their kitchen to the mouth-muted tunes of that mixtape they both knew too well, hummed just slightly out of tune. It was good, the first good thing they'd had in so long.
Dean's shoulder would never hurt again.